Chapter 27
COSIMO
One thing was clear to me. I needed to find a solution to this clusterfuck before I went chasing after Fabiana. The quickest way to get her to calm down would be to hand her a brand-new dress that didn’t have a fifteen-minute lifespan.
I dialed Tony as I moved through the atrium. He answered on the third ring. “Cosimo?”
“I will gut you the next time I see you.”
Something clattered on his end of the line. “What? Why?”
“That. Fucking. Dress.”
“Do you think it’s too much? You think it’s too much. What can I say, your wife isn’t afraid to take risks. Finally, someone in this family understands me—”
“It turned transparent under a camera flash.”
Silence.
“And now the stones are falling off because the glue is melting against her skin.”
“What?” His voice went up an octave. In my opinion, he still didn’t sound sufficiently alarmed. His atelier was done. He was done. “The dress was tested under light, I swear! And the bonding agent is solid. It’s just a bit heat sensitive.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s wearing it on her body, Tony. Bodies have heat,” I growled. “Although yours won’t once I’m done with you.”
Tony moaned. “Shit.”
“I need to get her something new to wear. Bring me something. Quickly.”
“I’m not in New York,” he squeaked out. “I’m on my way to DC right now, I left right after I’d dressed Fabiana. I can turn back, but I’m an hour away already.”
Fuck. “You’re useless.” I hung up and exited the atrium into a gallery where only a few others milled about. I didn’t even know where I was going, I just had too much adrenaline coursing through me to stand still.
My phone pinged. It was a text from Rosa.
Rena hasn’t checked in yet.
Fuck. Right. The main reason I’d come here tonight. At least if Rena Santoro wasn’t here yet, I had a bit of time to sort this out before I needed to try to track her down.
What the fuck was I going to do? Nettle’s friend Mia might’ve been able to bring her something, but she was out of town with Rom for the weekend.
Every other option I considered would take too long.
I racked my brain for any feasible ideas that didn’t involve me forcing another woman here to hand over her gown. Which I’d do, if it came to it.
And that’s when I saw it.
Halfway down the gallery, a dress stood inside a glass display case.
It was made from an aquamarine fabric and had a plunging neckline and fluffy feathers at the hem.
I knew nothing about women’s fashion, but it looked well-made and roughly Fabiana’s size, which were the only attributes that mattered as far as I was concerned.
I waved over a man in a tuxedo with a staff earpiece who stood nearby.
“Good evening, sir.” He gave me a pleasant smile.
His name tag said his name was Alistair Crane, and he was the director of development.
“Let me guess, you’re curious about the history of this stunning piece.
It’s up for auction tonight. I must commend your excellent eye.
This dress was once worn by the inimitable—”
“How much?”
Crane blinked, taken aback. “The bidding starts at three hundred thousand, sir.”
To my own astonishment, the next words out of my mouth were, “I’ll pay you four hundred for it right now.”
What the fuck are you doing?
Four hundred thousand dollars for a dress. A dress. It was the kind of insane, indulgent, financially illiterate spending I despised.
And now here I was, offering more than the price of a small apartment for a piece of fucking fabric because my wife was upset.
Crane turned his nose up, as if I were some beggar. “It’s not for sale,” he said stiffly. “It’s for the auction.”
My gaze narrowed. I didn’t fucking like being told no. “Five hundred if you give it to me now.”
He scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”
“Six hundred thousand. I’ll pay for it right now and throw in a generous tip.”
Now he was listening. He leaned in. “How generous?”
“Ten thousand.”
The curiosity in his eyes was extinguished. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but my professional integrity is worth far more than that. We were projecting the bidding on this item to reach at least eight hundred thousand.”
“Then I’ll give you eight hundred,” I said through gritted teeth. “And twenty grand to you.”
He hesitated, clearly running some calculation in his head. “To remove it from the auction, I’d have to charge a convenience fee.”
If not for the security standing by the entrance of the gallery, I would’ve defaulted to other methods of persuasion. “What kind of convenience fee?”
“Another one hundred and eighty thousand.”
“A million for a dress? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Highway robbery. That’s what this was. Eight hundred for the dress and nearly two hundred into his own pocket. He’d probably quit his job tomorrow and spend the next year drinking rum on a beach.
The man had the audacity to look offended.
“As I was saying, this is a vintage piece once worn by Marilyn Monroe. It has cultural significance, not to mention the kind of craftsmanship that simply doesn’t exist anymore.
I’m already breaking a number of rules by even considering the sale.
I couldn’t possibly violate my fiduciary duty by selling it for less than it’s worth. ”
I ground my teeth.
I didn’t have to buy it. That would be the disciplined thing to do. I could just tell Fabiana to go home. Get her out through a back entrance. There’d be plenty of other events where we could be photographed together. I could handle the rest of the night alone.
But the thought of telling her to leave—when she was so obviously upset, so embarrassed…
She’d spend the rest of the evening crying in her room. I fucking knew it. And tomorrow morning, she’d pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but the evening would stay with her. She was already nervous about getting her photos taken before this fucking shit show.
My fist clenched. I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t make my wife sneak out through some back door like she didn’t belong here.
With me.
“Fine. One million.”
“Wonderful,” Crane said, looking far too pleased with himself. “Right this way, sir. I can take your payment here.”
I followed him down a staff hallway into a room where several workers were organizing the auction lots.
“It has to be by card,” he said as he pulled out a payment terminal. “A wire would take several days to settle.”
“Fine.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him my black Amex.
He swiped it.
“Sir…” He looked up. “It says it’s been declined.”
I groaned internally. Probably because I’d never tried to pay a million dollars with a fucking credit card before.
“Put two hundred and fifty thousand on that one,” I said, pulling out three more cards from my wallet. “The rest on these. Two fifty each.”
Crane gave me a tight, unimpressed smile. “Of course.”
I stood there while he ran the cards one by one, every passing minute scraping against my nerves. I had to get back to Fabiana. Who knows what state she was in by now?
After what felt like forever, he was done.
“I’ll go get you that dress,” he said. “If you don’t mind waiting here.”
“Hurry,” I barked, just as my phone started vibrating in my pocket.
The caller ID said it was Jerry, my accountant.
“Hello?”
“Cosimo, did someone steal your wallet? I’m getting alerts for massive transactions across four of your cards. I don’t know how the bank even let them through. I’m already dialing the fraud department.”
“It wasn’t fraud, and maybe you can tell me why my limits are so goddamn low,” I snapped.
There was a pause.
“You’re telling me that was you?” A beat. “Are you under the influence?”
“I’m not under the fucking influence, Jerry.”
“Can I ask what’s going on?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just raise the limits, would you?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “you’re the one who told me to keep them at two hundred and fifty thousand.
In fact, I have it written in my notes. You know, I keep detailed notes.
” He cleared his throat. “You said that if you ever asked me to raise your limit, I should remind you that someone needs to manage the costs, and in this case, that someone is me.”
“I know what I fucking said. But that was before I got myself an expensive wife.”
Silence. Then Jerry chuckled knowingly.
“Ah. Wives. Yes, they’re known to be expensive, depreciating assets.”
I went very still. “Jerry. You ever call my wife a depreciating asset again, and you’ll be the one getting written off. Permanently. You understand?”
“Oh—geez. I’m sorry, Cosimo. I didn’t mean—I didn’t think you’d take it like that.”
“Raise the fucking limits,” I barked into the phone and hung up.